


Upside Down, Boy You Turn Me

by aisle_one



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aisle_one/pseuds/aisle_one
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About the thing that happened last week - it was decided that there would be no discussion about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upside Down, Boy You Turn Me

About the thing that happened last week - it was decided that there would be no discussion about it. They had shaken their hands, agreed. Looped their pinkies and sworn. Even exchanged a written statement, signed and notarized, containing in bullet points the terms of the pact - though only by one party to the other, the slightest hitch that the other who had conceived the terms refused to reciprocate, arguing that the other didn't suffer from the problem he called "diarrhea mouth" that the one did, so. The One also declared a "cross my heart," and the other furnished the rest - "and hope you die" - but they had laughed about it after so the former was fairly sure that the latter was only eighty-five point two percent serious (therefore measuring towards a probability of some and not _total_ destruction, and One had learned to be thankful for small kindnesses.) 

Arthur, who did often give his a/k/a as "the other," drew the line at making a bloody pact out of it, to which Eames said, "Jesus, Arthur, can you be any more literal?" Arthur responded, "Yes," thereby proving Eames's point. Eames went on to explain that when he said bloody he didn't actually mean _bloody_ and continued explaining as Arthur continued to give him his patent _this doesn't impress me at all_ look despite that Eames wasn't actually trying to do that. Or was he? In the middle of a rather flamboyant sashay of the hips - to emphasize _some_ point - Eames abruptly stopped, realizing he had gone off topic. Eames returned to first position parallel and calmly pocketed his hands (as their jazziness did tend to give him away), and forged aloof. He could do aloof.

Eames was not aloof now, in the restaurant, considering the full-sized, uncut pickle on his plate. He was laughing. The phallic shape was amusing, and to prove it to Arthur, he picked it up and waved it, pitched his voice high and squeaky and said, "Eat me."

In response, Arthur grabbed the pickle from Eames's hand and whacked it in half. The table smeared with pickle juice.

Eames stopped laughing. Arthur picked up where Eames left off. This, in a nutshell, was their story.

"God, are you twelve?" Arthur asked for the third time in the last hour. He returned to brooding and looking past Eames's shoulder. His eyes narrowed menacingly. Eames could almost see the wheels spinning in Arthur's mind, churning diabolical consequences if Eames so much as trespassed on a hint of conversation on the subject of That Night. Arthur refused to indulge it, preferring his choice method of _dealing_ by simmering and suppressing emotion. It wasn't Eames's business and not a state he would normally object. On the contrary, an angry, tightly wound Arthur was rather fetching - cheeks pink with silent rage, nostrils flaring like a matador faced off with a rushing bull, the sharp points of its horns and the consequent piercing imminent. Yes, there might be piercing - or rather, there was. The sexual metaphor was galloping at an insane speed, confusing Eames's present reality. It would explain why a moment later his mouth, likely wired to the synapse in his brain still perpetuating the fantasy of matador Arthur on the verge of being _taken_ by the bull, ran off the tracks of sense and coherence.

"Is it because we didn't use condoms?" Eames asked, and if his tone was more earnest than usual it might have been due to the lingering visual of matador Arthur's face frozen in helpless shock (and instant arousal) as the bull advanced and its horn did, at last, pierce him. Stabbed him. Thrust into him over and over and over again.

Eames's trousers went very, very tight in the groin area.

At which point, Arthur promptly unholstered his gun and shot a hole between Eames's legs, sobering Eames back to rude reality.

 

_

 

Eames blamed it on the a-a-a-alcohol.

"I'm not actually a pigeon," Arthur had scoffed, cocking one smug, perfectly shaped brow. 

"What the - what?" Ariadne said.

"A carrier, I mean, you know - the type that delivered mail," he corrected _not at all_. "Or spy grams," he said in a hush, sweeping his eyes around suspiciously, and returning to Ariadne's point, had nothing to do with anything. But - Arthur was drunk. Completely shitfaced, in fact, as Ariadne and Eames had never seen him and as they were discovering tended toward the stream of consciousness type of drunk with very, very poor manners and impulse control. 

"I'll have another," Arthur called out to the bartender, waving his three half empty glasses of scotch, vodka martini, and gin martini, in that respective order. 

"No," Ariadne tried to intervene, catching Arthur's wrist. Eames, however, was feeling quite charitable - he tended toward that kind of drunk - and assumed raising Arthur's glasses on his behalf. 

"Oh, come on," Eames said. "The poor chap deserves it," and by which Eames meant _himself_. He hadn't had such a good show in awhile. Arthur's tie was slung about his forehead, having earlier decided that it was a bold fashion statement. He was also barefoot. Tie undone and socks tossed behind the bar counter, Arthur was that much closer to doing the Macarena - why, yes, he was - in his birthday suit.

"Cheers," Eames said, when the bartender returned with another round. Arthur, also tending toward the type of drunk who hoarded, got to his feet swift as lightning and laid claim to the beverages with a wiry arm slung on the counter acting as barrier: Arthur and scotch/vodka/gin versus Eames and the world, or at least anyone who tried to get in between Arthur and his drinks. Ariadne, for instance, whom Arthur neatly discouraged with a finger to her nose, flattening it with a tiny nudge away.

"Back off, wench," Arthur said, and slugged down his scotch.

"Wench? Really? Guess I'll take that as my cue to quit this wingman gig." Ariadne picked up her scarf and coat, buttoned up, and slung her bag over her shoulder. "Consider our deal null and void. I am going home and I am leaving you with Eames." She leaned into Arthur and patted his cheek. "You deserve it."

"Hey!" Eames said, vaguely realizing the insult through the haze of alcohol. Though he was appeased in the next instant when Arthur grinned broadly and dimpled provocatively. The tease.

The rest of the night passed in a blur and didn't return to sharp clarity until the next morning, when Eames woke with his cock in Arthur's arse.

 

_

 

"I did not molest you in your sleep," Eames proclaimed, sounding no less than positively confident while he thought _well, possibly_. Arthur did exhibit such signs, faded with time, but discernible - mouth-shaped imprints on his collarbone, the same on the inside of his elbow trailing down to his bony wrist, quite a lot between his thighs, to which Eames was fleetingly privy until Arthur forced him off and onto the hotel floor. And while on the subject of floors, Eames took a moment to stare back down at the linoleum tiling. Because it was that kind of diner, the hole resulting from Arthur's gunshot left a rather unremarkable impression. It was but one of more than a handful, random flecks of metal buried like a timeline. Arthur was not the first to lose composure, they told, and Eames's eyes tracked from the floor to another table where Salvatore somebody, great-great grandson of Gotti, or Perscotti, or Lamborghini - Italian mobsters were not Eames's strong suit - sat eating apple pie. He saluted when he caught Eames staring and smirked.

Arthur scowled at Eames. "Not another word."

Eames mimed zipping his lips. Meanwhile, his mind carried on. "It-which-shall-not-be-named" remained shrouded in mystery and Arthur's stubborn refusal to lend testimony of the night's events merely furthered Eames's curiosity. Had he been a good lover? How many times had he made Arthur come crying out, "Yes, yes, daddy! Give it to me!"? These among all the questions percolating in Eames's head, including _what exactly did happen that night_ , demanded answers, priority. Indeed, the most urgent attention. Eames had presumed Arthur's reticence to speak of it had to do with Arthur's shame as he had begged so brazenly to have Eames's cock inside of him (again), for surely there was begging. Surely? A nugget of doubt had Eames - well, doubting. Perhaps there had been no begging, but laughing. Plenty and plenty of it by Arthur as Eames, a devoutly high achiever despite appearances to the contrary, kept trying unsuccessfully to render Arthur stupefied. As in, _stupefy aveda ejaculatora!_ with Eames's cock. Stupefied death by ejaculation, at least in form if not exactly in substance.

"Arthur," Eames started, and as Arthur reached again for his gun, Eames supplied, "I am girded in bullet-proof kevlar under this paisley shirt and green corduroy. If you want to shut me up, you'll have to shoot me in the head." Arthur took out his die and rolled it - a twenty-eight. "What?" Eames asked, shooting a glance at their waitress and expected her, suddenly, to leap at him with a knife. "Are we dreaming?"

"No," Arthur said, "that was meant to distract you."

"You bastard!" Eames said, and pounded his hand on the table. Did Arthur really think he could just - Eames's wandering gaze landed back on Salvatore - was it Cremini? The waitress placed another slice of apple pie under Salvatore's hovering fork. He winked when he caught Eames staring. Eames's mouth watered - at the pie, not Salvatore, who was rather unattractive. "Miss!" Eames called out to the waitress. "The same here, please."

 

_

 

Unbeknownst to Eames and Arthur, a third party to this story lurked at the periphery - one Dominick Cobb. 

Broody, angsty, hair perpetually shocked into a frenzied state from manhandling. "God, why? Why?" he often cried out whether or not the context called for it, while his hands buried in his golden locks and shook them like only the righteously wounded could. Cobb was prowling the hallway like a stalker refusing to be deterred by his ex-lover's restraining order when Eames and Arthur returned to the hotel inexplicably entwined as boa constrictors in heat - for boa constrictors, Cobb was certain, had needs, too. Enraptured as they were in each other's tonsils, they didn't see Cobb, even after they stumbled straight into him, reeking like a distillery.

"Ugh," Cobb said.

"Excuse us," Arthur moaned into Eames's mouth, and seconds later Cobb was confronting a slammed door, opening only briefly for the hand that shot out and placed the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the knob. Despite appearances to the contrary, Cobb was a brilliant man, shrewd and observant. Indeed: _something_ was going on. Determined to find out, he took to the stairs, to the roof, to the building's facade and scaled it down like a man born with an innate ability yet unearthed to shoot webs from his wrists.

Leveled with the window to Arthur's hotel room, he balanced on the outside trimming, the tips of his toes gripping the bottom of it while his fingers dug into the top. It was almost like downward dog pose and in that moment Cobb silently chanted a _namaste_. Too soon, however, for what he would encounter with his very eyes would nearly cost him his footing - and damn if all that core training and peaceful salutations didn't save him again.

Arthur was nude, as was Eames, and they were...playing naked hopscotch?

So perplexed was Cobb that he fished for his top (with his teeth and thank goodness it was in his shirt pocket), and spun it. _In mid air._ "Shit on a stick," he said, squinting down, far, far below to the recess of a dumpster. The task of finding the top and disinfecting it and himself cost him at least several hours. When he returned to hover outside of Arthur's room window, it was to find Eames burgeoning awake and his cock sliding out of Arthur's ass - then back in, and about when Arthur's eyes fluttered open.

_Oh._

 

_

 

Arthur, unlike Eames, possessed an eidetic memory. Sober or not, his mind performed like a machine, filing away images, sounds, objects in his memory for later use - or not. Ninety-five percent of what Arthur recalled with absolute precision belonged in the sludge pile. This is because most people, and things, and events were boring and unremarkable, and _if only_ Arthur could forget. It was like the Facebook wall of inanity was implanted in his brain and _who cares_ if Ariadne was eating yogurt - "The original is still my favorite!" - an hour ago and checked in via foursquare at the Pinkberry in her neighborhood.

Arthur returned his iPhone to sleep mode and sighed, vowing yet again to delete his Facebook acount. (He had once, though it sent him to withdrawal and made him literally homicidal.) Life was unfair, and though it was usually Arthur's celebrated motto, embraced with wholehearted commitment, lately it tipped on the side of merciless. Eames, who sat across from Arthur chewing his food with his mouth open while scratching his stomach, was hardly a progression from neanderthal, and Arthur had _slept_ with him. The kind of sleeping that involved having a tongue in his ass for most of the night. Arthur frowned. That had been him - Arthur - moaning "yes" and "please" and "daddy, spank me again." In this, his mind was relentless, flaying him like a Catholic monk caught with his hand underneath another monk's robes would flay himself, whipping at will instance after instance when Eames had Arthur blathering like an idiot, or his toes curling, or his eyes rolling back, or upside down. The last was strange, but compelling.

"You disgust me," Arthur said to Eames, meaning every word of it inasmuch as his unspoken _and next time you should tie me up_. Upside down.

Oh, fuck it.

"Fuck it," Arthur said, deciding at once to tell Eames everything. "We had sex." Eames's eyes bulged out round as saucers and his filthy mouth shaped into a filthier smirk. "It's true."

"So I didn't actually trip in my sleep and land with my prick inside your arse?"

"Just once," Arthur said, and even that had been exquisite. He flagged their waitress for the check.

"That's it?" Eames said, disappointment evident on his face, which, to Arthur's surprise, made a marginal improvement.

"If you must know - " then Arthur got up and strode out of the diner. Eames followed and the rest - 

\- the rest Arthur mercifully surrendered, with most of the telling (a/k/a reenactment) spent upside down.


End file.
